A Single Thread
by LittleBrotherSocket
Summary: In Charlie's world, the smallest thing can set off a major flood of emotion, but she hides her feelings from the world around her. She can't let anyone know what's going on inside. What does she really think? How does she really feel? (Okay. I obviously wrote this when I was tired, but whatever..)


A single thread; that's all it takes. One strand, so thin, so fragile, can hold a whole world together. Everything can seem strong and secure, but, if that one thread breaks, everything comes crashing down.

All it takes is a word, a gesture, anything to disrupt the peace, and everything—the guise of happiness, the mask of order, the seemingly contented silence, all of it—shatters into a million pieces. The single thread from which the world hangs, eternally tense, forever holding more than it can bear, is always on the edge of snapping, barely keeping the flood of heavy warfare at bay.

I sit in my room, staring at the wall as the dim light of evening streams in, traversing through the shutters as it finds its wary way to my bedroom floor. My eyes burn intensely, brimming with something between hatred and anguish, but I don't cry. I won't cry. I can't.

I slowly turn my gaze upon the red place on my wrist. I should know better than to punch myself. Now I have to concoct another tale about how I acquired the bruise that's bound to appear within an hour or so. Of course, the teeth marks on my other arm are just about as obvious. At least they're less obvious than the slits I've been avoiding all this time. Still, I'll have to keep my arms facing downward as much as possible.

I look around my room. A thumbtack. I imagine it piercing into my skin, but quickly shake away the thought. A water bottle. A minute with its contents, just a while with it in my lungs, and I could fade into oblivion. No… No, I can't do that. If I did, everyone would know. It would be too obvious. I can't let them know. Then again, maybe they should know…

I hear the clash of a glass bottle downstairs, followed by a shout and the slam of the front door. I pull my leg up on the bed, resting my chin on my knee. Soon comes the whirring of a car engine as it drives off echoes through the street. I've chased him away again. I didn't mean to. It was only a small matter, but it was enough; enough to break the single thread that suspends the storm that is forever a breath away.

I can't do this anymore. I can't be alone with my thoughts—not while I know there's a knife in my top drawer; not while my second-floor window waits temptingly at my back. Standing, I inhale shakily, rub my dry cheeks, smooth my hair, and step out into the open, crossing the threshold between distress and near security. I tramp down the stairs, then rush out the door and into the warm air of the summer night, jogging down the lonesome sidewalk, the scenery flying by in a familiar blur.

In all the world, there is only one place I can go for security. There's only one person who can calm me down enough for my muddled thoughts and emotions to make sense, who can truly understand me, who I can always count on. I've never spoken more than a few words to him at a time, most of which I don't really mean, but I feel as though he listens anyway. It's like he cares enough to truly understand, but I suppose… I just haven't really let him understand fully. I want to, but I guess I just can't.

I round the corner and, sure enough, there he stands, sporting his striped uniform and contradictory, lime-green cleats, kicking around the same old football as his dirty-blonde hair bounces across his forehead. It's as if he's always there, waiting for me, but I know he couldn't be. He's my enemy. We're supposed to hate each other. Even so, my feelings for him are… quite the opposite, but I could never let him know that.

"Charlie Vergier," he calls out as I begin to casually pass him by, "I challenge you to a shootout!" As usual, I act as if I didn't expect this challenge. I smirk at him, gazing into his clear, turquoise-green eyes, admiring them beneath my furrowed brow. I accept his challenge. After a few good-natured warnings, wrought with insults, we begin. In moments, I'm across the field, nearing the goal, Urbain close behind me. As the breeze throws itself at me, it washes away the stress of the evening's quarrel, freeing me from the mess that bound me. My legs run, my heart pounds, everything within me in focused on a single goal.

Seconds later, I put all my weight, all my strength, into a single kick, launching the ball into the net as I fall on my back. I lay on the cool grass for a moment, panting slightly, staring up into the pale clouds. I feel a stinging on my lower waist, and glance down quickly. My shirt must have rode up a bit when I fell, exposing three red slits to the rubbing of the grass below. I cover them hurriedly, just as Urbain reaches my side.

He looks down at me, grinning, blocking the sun as he reaches out a hand to help me up. Before I realize what I'm doing, I take it, smiling. "Don't get too cocky, Charlie," he cautions. "I just let you win 'cause it's your Birthday."


End file.
